


two paper airplanes

by andchaos



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Canon Compliant, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:39:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2793461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchaos/pseuds/andchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian hates the holidays. Mickey makes it a personal mission to cheer him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	two paper airplanes

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Out of the Woods by Taylor Swift.
> 
> The self-harm warning is due to a brief reference to canonical attempted suicide (Monica). There's also references to Ian's bipolarity, but that's not the focus of the story. It's just a piece of Ian's character.
> 
> Anyway. Couldn't resist some good old Christmas fluff! Inspiration due to prompting from a tumblr friend (grumblesandmumbles), as well as a post I saw lamenting the lack of Ian/Mickey Christmas fics.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Why the fuck are we here again?”

          Ian’s complaint cut through the silence, flat and bored. He shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, and Mickey rolled his eyes at Ian’s petulance. Even aside from the fact that they _had_ had this conversation three times since getting in the car this morning, Ian was still acting like Carl did when forced to go to school without the baseball bat.

          “Because, Gallagher,” said Mickey, reaching up to ruffle some snow out of Ian’s hair, “we need a Christmas tree.”

          Ian shoved Mickey’s arm off of him, but grabbed his gloved hand with his own before it could fall back to his side. Mickey’s resulting smirk was not at all deterred by Ian glaring at the rows and rows of pine trees ahead of and around them. Even Ian’s spectacular display of grumpiness held no water in a place literally named Winter Wonderland.

          “Didn’t take you for the Christmas type,” Ian said, casting a raised eyebrow in Mickey’s direction, but he refused to fall for that obvious attempt at baiting him into leaving.

          “Yeah, well,” Mickey mumbled, suddenly extraordinarily focused on examining every single tree on the lot, “Mandy needs a good holiday.”

          Not that that wasn’t true, after the year she’d had, but Mickey had ulterior motives. He didn’t know the exact reason, but Ian hadn’t been himself the past few weeks. After three different attempts to readjust his dosage, and three different _explosive_ fights thereafter, Mickey was forced to conclude that something else was getting Ian down.

          Mandy had been the one to point it out. Actually, she had presented it as more of a warning.

          “Just so you know,” she had said one morning a few weeks back, swilling a cup of coffee in one hand and straightening her beanie with the other, “Ian gets weird around the holidays.”

          “What?” Mickey had asked. He’d been sure his sister had been talking before that point, but that was the first part of the conversation to which he had given his full attention.

          “Ian,” Mandy had repeated, like her brother was excessively slow, “Every year, starting mid-November. He just gets…weird.”

          “Weird? What the fuck does that mean, weird?”

          “I don’t know,” she’d retorted impatiently. “These past few years he’s made Christmas into a bigger bitch than your wife. I don’t know why. Fucking figure it out if you’re so worried.”

          With that, she had flipped him off and wandered off to find pants.

          Mickey hadn’t gotten Ian to confess what was getting him so worked up and pissy, but he figured (well, Kev had figured, and Mickey had reluctantly conceded) that a little Christmas cheer never hurt anybody’s mood. He thought Ian might be more receptive to Mandy’s needs than his own, though, so Mickey kept his mouth shut and drove them to find a Christmas tree under pretense of satisfying his sister. Between breaking it off with Kenyatta and celebrating the first holiday in six years for which their father actually wouldn’t be around, Mandy probably would have sent them off on this mission at one point or another anyway. Free from her father’s oppressively grey reign, Mandy had spent the last week enlisting Debbie’s help in decorating the Milkovich house from top to bottom.

          After about twenty minutes Ian dropped his determined moodiness and started swinging their hands between them, properly joining in the search for a good pine to set up in the living room. He even started whistling after a little while, although when Mickey recognized the tune, he drew his hand away and shot Ian a disgusted look.

          “Are you humming _Christmas carols_?”

          Ian laughed. “Don’t sound so betrayed, Mick. You’re the one who caught the Christmas spirit like a fucking _disease_ this past week.”

          “Well, shut the fuck up.”

          “You like it,” Ian accused, narrowing his eyes playfully.

          “You’re tone-deaf.”

          “Am I?” asked Ian, grinning. He grabbed Mickey’s arm and starting singing even louder: “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas!”

          “Ian, shut up.”

          “ _—_ everywhere we go! Take a look at the five and ten _—”_

          “Shut the _fuck up_ , Gallagher!”

          _“Glistening once again—_ ”

          “I’m warning you!”

          “ _With candy canes and silver—_ ”

          “Gallagher!”

          “ _—lanes AGLOW!”_

          He held the last note, loud and long, and Mickey finally shook him off his arm and tackled him into the snow. Ian was laughing hysterically, rolling around on the floor beneath Mickey. Mickey pushed himself up a little and glared down at him, trying not to let his mouth twitch. When Ian finally quieted down a little, his laughter subsiding into stray giggles, Mickey pulled them both to sitting positions.

          “Fuck you,” he said, shoving at Ian’s shoulder.

          Laughing again, Ian launched himself at Mickey and flung them both back to the ground. He threw his head back and started screaming a new verse.

          “—there’s a tree in the park as well, another near the hotel…”

          “That’s not even the right words, you idiot,” said Mickey, shoving Ian off of him.

          “How do you know?” Ian asked, grinning. Mickey flushed and got hastily to his feet. Ian followed suit, shaking a little after rolling so thoroughly through the snow.

          “You see any good trees while you were goofing off there, Cinderella?”

          “I’m not Cinderella, I’m Prince Adam!”

          “Who the fuck is Prince Adam?”

          “The Beast. You know, like, _Beauty and the Beast_? His real name is Adam.” At Mickey’s look, he added, “What? Debbie made me watch Disney movies a lot when she was a kid.”

          “She still is a kid,” said Mickey, thinking about the vigor with which the girl had thrown tinsel and garland around his house. She was probably there right now, hanging wreaths at Mandy’s behest. “Wait, does that make me Belle?”

          Ian paused, then burst out into more laughter. Before Mickey could protest any more, Ian took off running through the trees, singing a song that Mickey vaguely recognized from the time Mandy had snuck Disney movies into the house in fourth grade. He didn’t get all the lyrics, but he thought he heard Ian shout, _“I want much more than this provincial life!”_ before he huffed impatiently and gave chase.

          He caught Ian around the middle and sent them crashing back into the snow. Between the ensuing snowball fight and the way he had to kiss Ian to shut him up when he got started on Jingle Bells, they didn’t end up finding a suitable tree until much, much later.

 

          Three and a half hours after they had set off, Mickey came stumbling through the front door, a tree balanced on his shoulder. Ian brought up the other end, kicking the door shut once he was over the threshold.

          “What are you doing?” a voice squealed, and Debbie came dashing into the room, tugging in anguish at her long red locks. “You’re getting pine needles everywhere! I just cleaned in here!”

          “Get over it,” Mickey scoffed, at the same time that Ian said, “It comes with the territory, Debs. You want a tree or not?”

          Debbie pouted but disappeared back around the corner. Mickey ignored the low thrum of voices in the background while he and Ian went about setting the tree up in the corner of the living room. They had just gotten it steady when the voices grew louder, and Mickey turned around to find his sister standing behind him, hands on her hips as she assessed their work.

          “Well?” he asked impatiently.

          “It’ll do,” she said, waving her hand.

          “You can haul it in next time, if you’re gonna be a bitch about it,” Mickey snarled.

          “By the way,” said Mandy, ignoring him completely, “Debbie’s gonna try to make you wear a Santa hat.”

          She did, in fact. Perhaps feeling guilty for Mickey’s rough, “Fuck off!” at the very suggestion, Ian acquiesced to the hat with relatively good grace. It looked absolutely ridiculous on him, a fact that Mickey took pleasure in pointing out immediately.

          “I look good and you know it,” said Ian.

          Mickey leaned close and flicked the fluffy white ball hanging in Ian’s face. “You wish.”

          Mickey was _trying_ , if nothing else. Ian’s mood had plummeted visibly as soon as they walked in the door and saw all the decorations, as though he had momentarily forgotten the time of year and the reason that they were hauling around a huge pine tree in the first place. Nothing but the deep-seated desire to cheer him up again could have convinced Mickey to consent to Debbie fluttering her lashes and saying, “Will you help us put the lights up?”

          He was trying. That was the only explanation for why, when Mandy informed him that they were throwing Christmas dinner a few days before the actual holiday (which meant that the Gallaghers and his siblings’ closest friends would be coming over for pizza bagels and spiked eggnog), Mickey actually agreed to come out of his room. And it was why, when Debbie started telling everyone that Mickey himself had hung the fairy lights on the tree, he didn’t throttle her on principle.

          “Fairy lights, huh?” asked Ian, smirking at him over his glass of eggnog.

          “Go fuck yourself, asshat,” said Mickey. He cast a glance over his shoulder; the Gallaghers had apparently taken this as an opportunity to try and overcome their misconceptions about the Milkoviches, although Iggy, Colin, and Joey’s presence were probably confirming their fears more than dispelling them. Iggy seemed surprisingly good with Liam, while Colin and Joey were getting to know Carl pretty well. This was worrisome, if Fiona’s constant glances over at the three of them was any indication, but the lights were low and he was a little tipsy and the music was loud and Mickey didn’t really care about how well their families got along, not when Ian was in front of him and Christmas was in the air, infecting even the Milkoviches.

          “You okay, man?” Mickey asked. “You’ve been nursing that one cup all night, and you’ve been squatting in the corner when nobody’s talking to you.”

          “I’m fine,” Ian insisted. “Seriously. Go, have fun. I’m fine.”

          Mickey made a derisive noise in the back of his throat, settling in beside Ian against the wall and crossing his arms. “Fun? With these jokers?”

          He didn’t actually mean that; the get-together was pretty good, considering it had the Milkoviches, the Gallaghers, and at least three of each of their closest friends. They knew how to throw a party. But for some reason, every time Mickey went to knock back a new drink, or tried to talk to his brother or cut a deal with Kev or one of Svetlana’s _friends,_ his eyes were drawn back to the sulking ginger in the corner. Even the Santa hat crammed firmly back on top of Ian’s head did nothing to lessen unhappy atmosphere settled like a cloud around him, thick and dark and cold.

          Ian managed to quirk a half-smile in Mickey’s direction, and though it had no heart behind it, Mickey appreciated the effort. “Shut up,” said Ian gently, nudging Mickey’s shoulder with his own. “Mandy’s got drugs in her room. Lip brought a flask full of tequila. Go have fun.”

          Mickey just shook his head, punching Ian’s arm lightly before stealing his drink and downing it in one gulp. He ignored Ian’s insistence and said, “You know, out of everyone here, I figured _you_ would be the most into all this…jolly, red and green, cookies and egg nog, Christmas crap. Mandy’s got you beat in gifts _and_ spirit.”

          “She bought you something?”

          “Bottle of moonshine,” he said, grinning. “She made it herself.”

          Ian gave a sarcastic smile. “How sweet.”

          “Hey, don’t knock it! It’s better than that martini crap your sister keeps trying to get me to drink.”

          “Fiona’s making you martinis?”

          “Debbie,” said Mickey, grimacing. “Joey’s got her on some weird bartending kick. Don’t let it stick, she’s awful.”

          “You tell her that?”

          “Do I look like I want to end up murdered in my sleep by a fuckin’ nine year old girl?”

          “She’s fourteen, Mick,” said Ian, hip-checking him lightly.

          “Whatever,” Mickey muttered. “I’m getting another drink. You want one?”

          At Ian’s nod, Mickey slouched off from the wall and pushed his way through the crowd in his living room. The music had turned up so loud that the beat was thrumming through the floors, and everyone had consumed enough eggnog by that point that they were relatively drunk—at least drunk enough that someone had started a mosh-like pit in front of the couch. The dancing bodies were difficult to shove through, but Mickey did, sending people stumbling out of the way as he crossed the room. He poured a generous amount of spiked drink into two different cups and had just paused to shove a reindeer-shaped cookie into his mouth when someone slid into place beside him, reaching over him to grab the pitcher.

          “If it isn’t Ivy Tower,” said Mickey, throwing a mocking smile Lip’s way as he pulled back to pour the eggnog into a cup of his own. “You back for the winter break?”

          “First of all, it’s Ivory Tower,” Lip drawled, barely sparing a glance his way. “If you’re gonna talk shit, at least do it right. Second of all, yes, I am. Figured I could come down to make sure my brother was doing alright, but Fiona tells me you’re doing a bang-up job yourself.”

          Mickey furrowed his brow. “Ian’s been fine for months. The fuck are you talking about?”

          Lip smirked, finally turning to face him properly. “He _was_ fine,” Lip corrected, “but he always gets bad when the holidays come around. What? You really haven’t noticed how down he’s been lately?”

          Mickey turned away, leaning the small of his back against the edge of the table and casting his gaze towards where Ian was standing with his arms crossed, actively avoiding the rest of the party. Avoiding Lip’s eye, Mickey just shrugged uncomfortably, not wanting to concede the point. “So?”

          “ _So_?” Lip repeated, but his face had lit up and he was clearly enjoying having something over Mickey. “Don’t you know what happened a few years ago?”

          Mickey leveled him with a bored look, raising an eyebrow. “What, you think Ian and I sit around talking about our feelings and shit? Braiding each other’s hair and listening to that Taylor Swift shit Mandy and Debbie play nonstop while they’re baking?” At Lip’s unamused look, Mickey huffed out a sigh and said, “Fucking fine! I’ll bite. What the fuck is up with you Gallaghers and Christmastime?”

          “It’s not _Christmas_ ,” said Lip impatiently, “It’s the entire month of December. From like, late November to New Year.”

          Mickey frowned, pushing his tongue into the corner of his mouth. “When did all this shit start, anyway?” He carefully studied his own fingernails as he said this, picking at his cuticles and pretending not to listen to Lip’s answer—although he could still see Lip’s gloating grin in his peripherals.

          Despite his smugness, Lip’s voice was significantly more somber when he answered. The sudden disappearance of his usual holier-than-thou act actually made Mickey look up when he said bluntly, “Monica slit her wrists.”

          “Oh.” Mickey looked down, studying where his fingers were picking at one of the frayed threads surrounding a hole in his jeans. “Monica’s the, uh, mom, right?”

          Lip cast him a withering look, and the return of his usual demeanor diminished some of Mickey’s discomfort.

          “Yes, Monica’s our mother,” said Lip. Mickey opened his mouth, unsure of what he was going to say, but Lip just turned away from him and said, “It was almost three years ago, Jesus Christ.” Mickey had a vague memory of Ian, pale and sixteen and stupid, messing around with that disgusting old piece of shit that Mickey had once headbutted in the street. He wondered how much this Monica had played into Ian’s destructive behavior back then. “Still, it kinda fucked everyone up, you know? Ian most of all, I think. And then when he got diagnosed and everything…I think he’s worried about turning out like her after all.”

          Mickey crossed his arms. Even though he was listening to Lip talk, his worried gaze was focused solely on the boy in the corner. “The kid’s worried he’s gonna run himself through with the tree or something?”

          Lip made an irritated sound in the back of his throat, and Mickey could tell the conversation was coming to a close. “Something like that. Look, go easy on him, okay? The holidays have been rough for him ever since the whole Monica thing happened.” Lip raised his eyebrows meaningfully without having explained barely anything. He, however, seemed satisfied with the information given, and he took a long sip of his eggnog and walked away.

          Mickey remained where he was for a few minutes, chewing on his lower lip and staring over at Ian, until the focus of his attention turned and met his gaze, tilting his head in a silent question. Mickey shook away his paralyzing concern, fixed a smile on his face, and crossed back to Ian’s side. He settled against the wall beside him once again and wordlessly handed him his drink, knocking their shoulders together afterwards and taking a drink from his own glass without looking at him.

          “You wanna get out of here?” Mickey said eventually.

          Ian turned to look at him, one eyebrow arched, his mouth slightly open. “Why?”

          Mickey shrugged, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. He kept his eyes carefully trained on where his sister was in a drinking contest against Iggy and Veronica as he said, “I don’t know. You don’t seem in the festive mood. Thought I’d do you a favor, Jesus. If you don’t want—”

          Ian interrupted him his discomfited blather with a simple, “Okay.” He shrugged off the wall and Mickey copied him before realizing that Ian was looking over his shoulder, one hand held out behind him. He hesitated, glancing around the room. Nobody was looking at them. Staring down at the carpet, Mickey grabbed his hand, but Ian just half-smiled, keeping blessedly silent. He wound his way through the living room, Mickey trailing behind him, and they had almost successfully slipped out the front door when Mandy cried out, “WAIT!” They both whirled around to see what had happened, only to find her lurching unsteadily to her feet, one finger pointed accusingly in their direction.

          “What?” Mickey bit out. He prodded Ian in the back, trying to get him to flee the rest of the way through the door, but Ian was looking at Mandy and seemed not to notice that he was being poked.

          Mandy broke out into giggles. She slapped a hand over her mouth in a failed attempt to stifle it, still gesturing towards them. Lip caught on next, face splitting in a wide grin, and only when Fiona doubled over laughing did Mickey finally break.

          “ _What_?” he repeated.

          His anger only seemed to fuel their amusement, and Colin started laughing too while Fiona clutched at her sides. A few more people started up before Mandy managed to choke out, _“Mistletoe!”_

          Ian and Mickey looked up at the same time. True to her word, Mandy had apparently hung a small bundle of mistletoe in the entryway, the green and red swinging on its thin string from the light breeze gusting through the open front door. A low, thick rumble started up in the back of Mickey’s throat, but before he could actually start growling at people, Ian threw his head back. Mickey thought he was similarly embarrassed and pissed off before he noticed that Ian was laughing with the rest of them. Before he could process that Ian’s unexpected joy was a _good_ thing, a strike of pure, raw betrayal shot down Mickey’s spine, and he whirled to scowl at him. He vaguely recognized that his glare lost a significant amount of bite simply because they were still holding hands.

          Ian tugged a little on their joined hands, unfazed by Mickey’s hostile expression. Ian leaned in a little closer, making it clear that his words were for Mickey alone as he whispered, “You don’t have to, you know.”

          Mickey was suddenly hyper-aware of every eye in the room on the two of them. He sucked in a breath, unsure. He was just about to shake off Ian’s hand and go drown himself in that special Milkovich moonshine when Mandy yelled out, “Pussy!” and he made a snap decision.

          Ian had apparently accepted his reluctance and was starting to put distance between them when Mickey reached up, grabbed the front of his horrible ugly Christmas sweater, and yanked Ian down to his eye level. He barely took a breath before crushing their lips together, rough and determined.

          The kiss was horribly unromantic. Both of their families, as well as their families’ closest friends, were all watching, and someone was wolf-whistling. It was nothing like the sweet desperation at the club or even the rushed, meaningful sincerity of their very first kiss, but it was _something_. It was Mickey kissing his boyfriend in front of his entire family when he wasn’t even particularly drunk. Ian seemed to get it, if the way he grabbed at the back of Mickey’s tan sweater was any indication.

          They pulled away after what was probably far too long for propriety. Someone coughed; someone else let out an awkward giggle. Mickey, however, did not break his and Ian’s prolonged eye contact until the rogue clapping started. Red bloomed over his cheeks and face. He ripped his hand from Ian’s, ducked around him, and sprinted out the door just as the applause really started up. The door slammed behind him and he heard Ian laughing behind him as they took off down the street, leaving a trail of hurried footprints on the unplowed pavement.

          They didn’t stop for ten minutes, ten minutes of chasing each other and dodging pulled punches and tackling each other into the snow. Honestly, Mickey didn’t even realize where he’d been leading them until they stopped on the edge of the lot, Ian stopping short next to him and looking over the grass and sand as well. They glanced at each other, sharing a heavy look, and then Ian turned and launched himself up the fence in front of them. He vaulted over the top and took off running through the baseball field. Mickey climbed over after him and gave chase, only catching up when Ian slowed down in front of the dugout.

          Mickey smirked over at Ian, challenge in the lines of his teasing expression. “You down, Firecrotch?”

          Without waiting for an answer, he ran to shimmy open the lock. He had it undone in under a minute and he darted inside, splaying out on the cold but mercifully dry bleachers so that he could uninterruptedly watch the moonlight reflect off the metal of the fence and play across Ian’s face as he followed him into the dugout. Ian shut the door behind them and jumped up the steps to sit beside him. As soon as he was seated, Mickey sat up and leaned heavily on Ian’s shoulder.

          Ian’s teeth glinted in the dim lighting when he smiled. Mickey was about to ask what was up when Ian started digging around in his pocket with the arm Mickey was leaning on, dislodging his head. His protests died in his throat when Ian pulled out his hand, displaying his prize in the pale light of the moon.

          “Holy shit!” Mickey yelled, jumping in his seat a little. “You got into Iggy’s stash?”

          “Fuck yes!” Ian said, lighting up a little more with Mickey’s excitement.

          They tore open the wrappers with their teeth and lapsed back into silence as they sucked on their candy canes. Ian knocked their knees together, and Mickey made a small, happy noise around his candy and laid his head back on Ian’s shoulder, letting him throw an arm around him. A few minutes later, Ian spoke up again, although all of the previous adrenaline had clearly bled from his body.

          “Thanks for getting me out of there.” His voice was quiet, reserved. His tone reminded Mickey of the early days of his medication, when his hormones were still rebalancing and everything in his head was soft and sad.

          Mickey cleared his throat uncomfortably. “’Course, man.”

          After another small pocket of silence, Ian said, “I saw you talking to Lip.” It was technically a statement, but the way he phrased it was almost like a question. The underlying inquiry was clear: _What were you guys talking about?_ But he clearly had an inkling.

          Mickey toed at one of the grooves on the bleachers. He had demolished half of the candy cane, and the straight part was smaller than the curve by now. Ian was eating his from the opposite direction, letting it balance on his lip like a half-forgotten cigarette. Mickey pulled the candy away from his mouth and licked his lips, stalling a little without knowing exactly why.

          “He told me about your mom.” Mickey paused, glancing over for his reaction, but Ian didn’t say anything. Mickey insufflated, trying to figure out the right thing to say. When he continued, his words seemed like a non sequitur, but his tone suggested otherwise. “You know, I was thinking we should sleep out here tonight.”

          Ian looked sideways at him, mouth turning up a little at the corners. “Oh yeah? You wanna spread out a blanket, look for shooting stars?”

          Mickey needed a moment to place the reference, but after a minute, he did. A bubble of laughter forced its way through his lips, and before he knew it, he had collapsed backwards on the bleachers, laughing hysterically while Ian looked down in amusement. When Mickey finally got himself under control, he sat back up, punching Ian on the arm and saying, “Fuck you.”

          Ian smirked and went back to his candy. Mickey leaned back against him, finishing off his as well. He was so content and settled that he barely noticed when he started to fall asleep, at least until Ian poked him in the arm and asked if he wanted to find a comfortable patch of grass to stretch out on. Mickey nodded sleepily, groggy and only half-aware as Ian grabbed his hand and pulled him off the bleachers and to his feet. He stumbled along behind as he led him out of the dugout, across the dirt, and a little ways past, until they were mostly out of the light shining over the field. They stopped at what seemed to Mickey an arbitrary spot, and Ian flung himself down on the ground, reaching up to tug Mickey down beside him. Mickey laid down next to him, accepting the caramel chocolate Ian brought out of his pocket, and chewed quietly while propped with one arm behind his head. When they were both finished with the candy, Ian grabbed his shoulder and pulled him tighter against his body. Mickey decided against resistance, flipping onto his stomach and flinging an arm over Ian’s waist, burrowing his head into his chest. Not that he would ever admit it, but he slept best when pressed as close to Ian as possible.

          Ian bent to kiss the top of his head, then laid back down and settled into the grass. “Merry Christmas,” he muttered.

          Mickey pressed his fingertips into Ian’s side. “Fuck off,” he whispered back.


End file.
